


Pretty Little Things

by squidmemesinc



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: Face-Sitting, Lingerie, Other, Sex Toys, Sticky Sexual Interfacing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-06
Updated: 2018-08-06
Packaged: 2019-06-22 15:32:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,585
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15585012
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/squidmemesinc/pseuds/squidmemesinc
Summary: Pharma is still shoving hangars aside back and forth, flipping through them and hesitating every once in a while. It’s clear Ratchet hovering behind him is annoying him, distracting him, and Ratchet estimates he’s got maybe a few seconds before Pharma tells him to back off. He cuts him off before he can.“Got anything in there that would fit me?”





	Pretty Little Things

**Author's Note:**

> I've been on a big Pharma kick recently (actually since before LL22) and this is the first thing I could manage to actually write. He's so fun to write :')

Ratchet lounges on the berth with his helm propped up on his hand and his optics glazing over as Pharma futzes around in the closet for what has now been—he checks his clock—ten minutes.

“Pharma,” Ratchet grunts. Pharma doesn’t answer, and Ratchet isn’t sure if he’s listening, but he continues anyway. “You know you don’t _have to_ wear anything.”

Pharma ignores him and studies at a black piece in his hand with lots of straps and a sort of liquid-like quality to the fabric. Ratchet stares at it and feels little. It’s been ten minutes since he had Pharma pinned to the wall, moaning into his mouth, after all. He’d insisted on stopping to pick something out before they went any further, claiming he so infrequently got the chance (as if every night was infrequent?), and any heat Ratchet might have been feeling in his array before has since ebbed with the onset of his boredom. He gives it another minute before he demands Pharma’s attention again, clearing his throat. “Pharma—”

Pharma turbine twirls in irritation and locks his elbows as he turns around to glare. “Don’t be _boring_ , Ratchet. Why would I buy all of these if I wasn’t going to wear them?”

“‘ _Boring’_?” Ratchet scoffs in disbelief. “Are you kidding me? As if a few little scraps of cloth are the most exciting thing we’ve ever done.”

Pharma has already turned back to the closet.

Ratchet sighs and heaves himself off the berth, coming up behind his fussy lover. Pharma’s field prickles with annoyance and Ratchet knows if he touches him, there will be hell to pay. He peers into the closet instead. Honestly, Ratchet thinks all of Pharma’s little outfits are nice. He gets them specially made whenever he finds inspiration that suits his taste. He isn’t sure what exactly it is about the additions that adds a bit of flavor, but it is stimulating. He’s aware humans and other organics wear clothes, but that they’re meant to be taken off. Well, sometimes. The intricacies and uses of lingerie somewhat escape him.

It doesn’t have to make sense, though. Ratchet’s still thinking about how Pharma just called him boring. As if getting caught up in a heated moment and then putting it on hold for ten minutes—twelve now, actually—wasn’t an explicit drag. Pharma is still shoving hangars aside back and forth, flipping through them and hesitating every once in a while. It’s clear Ratchet hovering behind him is annoying him, distracting him, and Ratchet estimates he’s got maybe a few seconds before Pharma tells him to back off. He cuts him off before he can.

“Got anything in there that would fit me?” he asks in a low voice.

Pharma’s hands still instantly and a shiver of interest runs through his field. It’s followed up by a tinge of skepticism. Pharma turns his head over his shoulder and gives Ratchet a scrutinizing look. “You’ve never asked before.”

“Never occurred to me before,” Ratchet replies with a shrug. Pharma’s field has opened up a little bit, giving Ratchet an opening to put his hands on Pharma’s waist, tweaking the output of his own field to concentrate sensation, EM pulses buzzing through his plating and against Pharma’s. “No one’s ever called me ‘boring’ before either.”

Pharma turns his head back to face the closet and starts perusing more slowly, clearly putting in a bit more thought. Ratchet presses what he intends to be a soothing, maybe a bit flirtatious kiss to the back of his neck, moving his hand over Pharma’s back and thumbing across his turbine. Pharma is still ignoring him, though, muttering ‘no’ to every outfit that fails to reach his expectations. Ratchet busies himself lighting the tips of his fingers up under Pharma’s wings, focusing his field again to a finer point for a little innocent tickle.

Pharma’s wings twitch, but he covers the movement smoothly but tugging something out of the closet and turning to face him, smiling over the top edge of the hangar and giving it what Ratchet is sure he thinks is an enticing little jiggle.

It’s white vinyl with red trim and buttons that go up the front, spilling out into a low cut bodice. But Ratchet frowns at the little hat tied to the neck of the hanger, custom made to have the medical red cross printed on it. He grins wryly. “Really, you’re a doctor and you want to play nurse?”

Pharma’s smug smile quirks down immediately. “You’re still being boring,” he snaps, shoving the hanger back into the closet.

The danger is back in his field, but Ratchet curls a hand around his waist again anyway, turning him back towards the closet and slipping his own hand in to thumb through the items. The first thing to catch his eye is red and lacey, a deep cut neck down to the waist with cutouts on the side. It’s not much of a garment, but it’s pretty and more tasteful than much of Pharma’s collection, despite the third deep cutout in the crotch clearly designed for full access. Pharma scowls as Ratchet lifts it off the rack and holds it up against himself and waits for his look to soften.

Pharma is obviously reluctant to let up, but Ratchet can tell he’s interested. He can hear the gears turning as Pharma plans out their evening before he even reaches back into the closet, plucks something out and slips away from Ratchet with a flourish before he can even get an optic on what he’s holding. All he can tell is that it’s purple.

“If you tear it, you’ll pay,” are Pharma’s parting words as the door shuts behind him.

So Ratchet stands alone in Pharma’s recharge suite holding something frail and lacey and honestly wondering if he’s even still in the mood for interfacing after this long intermission. But being on leave and dreading inviting Pharma’s ire by turning him down, he decides to try to figure out how to get into the thing.

As soon as he starts to approach it, he worries his frame is too bulky and squarish to fit into something designed for Pharma. But given that it doesn’t even seem to reflect Pharma’s shape as it’s loose on the hangar, he hooks a finger into it and finds it to be surprisingly elastic. He doesn’t pretend to understand the process of weaving together organic filaments to form something like this, especially with its intricate pattern and apparently flimsy but in reality quite sturdy composition, so he doesn’t suppose he has to.

Feeling a bit silly, he steps into it and carefully pulls the straps over his shoulders. The thing immediately conforms to his frame, thin strings slipping into the seams of his pelvic plating, likewise on his shoulders. He rolls his shoulder experimentally, worry about snagging, but finds it moves along with him almost as if lubricated, though it clearly isn’t. Whoever made this knew what they were doing. Even if it looks thin, it’s built for wear. And it better be, Ratchet figures, remembering seeing one of Pharma’s receipts for these things.

Pharma still hasn’t returned, so Ratchet dares to get a look for himself in the mirror to the side of the closet. He steps in front of it tentatively and feels the corners of his mouth twitch as he tries to decide how he feels about it. He’s used to seeing Pharma dressed up in these, but he’s not sure it has the same effect stretched over his form. He doesn’t have the smooth, aerodynamic lines of a jet for the garment to curve over and cling to. Instead it lies flat, stretched across his chest, making a wholly separate plane as it stretches down in a V just above his interface panels, leaving them exposed.

He stares at his reflection a while longer. The back is similarly strange to him, since it simply climbs up from his aft to his neck with a nice panel of scalloped lace, filling in the space the front reveals. It would look nice, travelling up the length of Pharma’s turbine, but on him he feels it misses the mark. He wonders if he should have consented to a demotion to nurse to feed into Pharma’s power play fantasies.

There’s a sharp knock and the door slides open, revealing Pharma, who has clearly recovered from his relatively small tantrum and is looking comfortable in a purple bodysuit that climbs the length of his torso all the way up to his neck. There’s a diamond of paneling visible on his chest that shows off his badge, but it actually covers quite a bit of him. Along his hips is an interesting skirt that tapers to an end in the front, though it and seems to be longer in the back, composed of more fabric, puffy and stiff and sheer.

Pharma regards him with a half-amused appreciation in his optics. “You look hot,” he barks a laugh. He struts towards Ratchet, who’s wondering how far he’s willing to go to not be considered boring and if trying to do something Pharma will pan out like he hopes it will, or if he’ll be stuck with some regrets later. He doesn’t come to much of a conclusion before Pharma plants his hands on his chest, clearly aiming for the fabric so he can scrunch it under his fingertips as he closes in on Ratchet in a rough kiss.

Ratchet abandons his irritation in favor of grabbing Pharma around the waist and pulling him back towards the berth. It’s doublewide and thickly padded, and decorated with more of these strange fabrics and cushions Pharma seems to enjoy. He calls it _luxury_ where Ratchet might call it _frivolity_ , but he indulges in it nonetheless. He backs onto the berth himself, pulling Pharma with him as he laps and bites at Pharma’s lips and Pharma laps and bites back at his.

Ratchet feels his plating begin to warm again. While he might not be able to see the point of dressing himself up, he can feel Pharma’s fingertips slipping under what he’s wearing, teasing at the fabric, clearly enjoying the tactile sensation of being able to interact with his own playthings as he’d intended. Ratchet plucks at the side of Pharma’s garment in turn. It’s completely open on the back, with just a silky bow tied around his neck and the skirt at his aft, so he sticks his fingers in the side and pulls out, letting the air waft between the lace and Pharma’s warming plating.

Pharma swats at him and twists his arm out of reach, grabbing Ratchet by the wrist instead. Ratchet resist the urge to scoff at his fussiness, but Pharma is the one who interrupts this time. “You want to use my toys, we play my game. I’m driving.” He leans forward into Ratchet’s audial, stroking his wrist with his thumb tenderly now. “On your back, panels open.”

Ratchet rolls his optics where Pharma can’t see and leans back, giving him a cocky smile. As if he would have said no. He eases back onto the berth, unfolding his legs out from underneath him, letting Pharma settle between them and over him as he lies back. The fabric shifts over his plating and it’s a strange sensation, feeling something moving on his frame besides just his own metal. He worries about damaging it again, but he’s sure he would see it on Pharma’s face if he did. But Pharma is merely watching him instead of contorting into an expression of horror and rage, so he focuses on what he’s been instructed to do.

Ratchet stretches his arms out over his head, catching his wrist in his opposite hand and canting his hips up so Pharma can get the full effect of him popping his panels. His spike pressurizes immediately, easily roused to Pharma’s touch and intensity, and his calipers flex as the cool air wafts over his already wet valve.

Pharma arcs over him like a cat, straddling Ratchet wide and crawling his fingertips up towards his elbows. Ratchet holds his gaze, and puts on a show of being coy, maybe even a little demure, allowing his lover to steer the direction of their fun tonight. Pharma reaches for his wrist again and draws his arm up towards the edge of the berth. Ratchet isn’t sure why until he hears a mechanical whirr and something clamps down over his wrist.

He doesn’t break his gaze from Pharma’s now that he’s half-handcuffed to the bed. “You’ve been buying more toys,” he observes coolly.

“A few,” Pharma says, wearing his own version of coy. “I’m sure you can find the other one yourself.” He leans up and lets Ratchet reach his wrist up to where it locks into place automatically as well, trailing his fingertips down the separate panels of Ratchet’s borrowed lingerie again. He pushes the panels off Ratchet’s chest plate and abdomen, sighs appreciatively and lets them spring back.

“What’s the draw?” Ratchet asks in as neutral a tone as he can, trying to avoid a fight, especially now that he’s effectively immobilized. “I can’t imagine it has anything to do with organic physiology. That doesn’t seem like you.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Pharma snaps. “You act as if I’m the first mech to take interest in this sort of thing. You’ve clearly spent too much time on earth.” Ratchet gives him a patient look and waits for him to explain. “It’s about covering up what’s normally seen. It adds intrigue.” He places his thumb and forefinger at the base of Ratchet’s spike, but doesn’t touch, instead sliding up the fabric that covers his pelvic plating slowly, as if this might be a tantalizing thing that wasn’t normally available for view. Ratchet still doesn’t get it, but he doesn’t have to get it to enjoy Pharma’s fingers teasing around his array. “Besides, they’re pretty, don’t you think?” He sounds a little distant.

“They look very nice on you,” Ratchet admits placidly, distracted by Pharma’s fingers circling around his spike, between it and his valve, granting contact to neither. But they draw back when he speaks.

“Oh, I see. This is about you feeling insecure.”

“What?” Ratchet is sprung from his haze by a painful jolt of denial. His calipers squeeze again between his parted legs, expectant and confused. “I’m not insecure.”

“I told you, you look hot,” Pharma insists, plucking at the garment once again so it snaps back against Ratchet’s plating.

“Forgive me for not thinking you were being sincere,” Ratchet counters, arching an optic ridge.

Pharma purses his lips before cocking his head with a smile. “I’ve thought about you dressed up for me before. Didn’t think it’d ever happen without a little coercion. Trust me, I’m very aroused.”

Ratchet watches him slide his hand down his chest, moving it over his badge and down the soft, stretchy lace to where he lets just his valve panel slide back. He sinks one finger in nice and slowly to let Ratchet hear the squelch of lubricant, and his accompanying theatrical but likely very real groan of pleasure.

“Not proof enough for me,” Ratchet lies as a hitch works into his vents. His spike is leaking heavily and he would worry about this ruining Pharma’s little outfit if he didn’t know from experience it washed out. “I’d need to take a closer look,” He jerks his chin up, unable to guide Pharma to where he wants him with his hands, but knowing he’ll understand, if this wasn’t already something he’d been planning.

Pharma grins. “Good boy.” He leans down for another rough kiss, though it’s slower this time, more crushing than biting, and he moans as he fists his hands in the fabric over Ratchet’s abdomen. Ratchet lets his tongue rove around Pharma’s mouth in thick, wet strokes like he knows Pharma likes, and all too soon he’s pulling off and sidling up with his thighs on either side of Ratchet’s head.

Ratchet’s fists clench as he shifts against the bonds, wanting to grab Pharma by the aft and pull him flush against his mouth. He’s as wet as he’d promised, and lubricant quickly smears across Ratchet’s chin and mouth as Pharma grinds down for Ratchet to thrust his tongue inside in the same manner that he’d kissed him.

Pharma moans instantly and grabs the edge of the berth so he can ride Ratchet’s thick probing glossa. His outermost calipers try to get a grip on it to pull him in deeper, but Ratchet just keeps flattening it over Pharma’s internal nodes and sensors, pressing against them, circling, teasing with the tip of his tongue. Pharma sings out wanton little noises above him, his thighs squeezing against Ratchet’s helm and relaxing as he grinds down and forward and back in slow but firm movements.

His valve is soft and pliable in Ratchet’s mouth, and the medic’s spike twitches. He wishes it could replace his tongue, but he takes great pleasure listening to Pharma sing his praises in the form of long, low syllables, maybe working in his name once in a while. He knows this is no exaggeration, at least, even if he is otherwise _boring_. He’s got the sensitive nodes in Pharma’s valve memorized, and he knows just how to hit them to have Pharma climbing towards overload in another minute. He squirms and groans and Ratchet is again struck with the infuriating sensation of not being able to get his hands on Pharma’ squeeze his thighs or his aft and really grind him down so much harder to give him a real buzz of sensation.

He does it anyway, though. He can feel Pharma’s calipers convulse and his mouth is sticky with lubricant right at the moment he lets out a sharp gasp. Ratchet keeps working his tongue over his opening, swiping up to circle his node as Pharma’s frantic grinding will allow, but either way it’s all downhill from here.

Ratchet would gladly go for another if his hands were free and he could get them on the flighty jet to pin him down, but Pharma only gives him a few moments after his moaning has quieted and he’s relaxed into harsh vents and spinning fans before he pulls off with slightly shaking legs. Ratchet feels a little dazed and cold in the aftermath, without Pharma’s warm array cradling his face.

Pharma gives him a quick-once over with a towel that he then tosses to the side of the berth, quickly forgotten, though Ratchet is sure they’ll want it later. He’s hovering over him again with a wicked but softened smile, as even his normally prickly field reflects the afterglow of a good overload. The fingers of one hand are tracing the opening in the side of Ratchet’s lingerie, plucking at the straps that run across the otherwise empty space and smoothing their lines down over Ratchet’s frame. “Ready for another surprise?”

“How much did you spend while I was gone?” Ratchet asks in mild exasperation. He thinks he saw a few new outfits in Pharma’s closet, along with the modifications to the berth.

“Why should you care?” Pharma asks lazily, walking his fingers up from the base of the V to dot his finger lightly on Ratchet’s nose. “It’s my money, and you’re getting something out of it, so you might as well lie back, shut up, and let me work.”

He’s got a remote, suddenly. Ratchet hadn’t seen him pick it up, but he presses a button on it, and there’s a beep, followed by a sustained mechanical whirr. Ratchet instantly notices the ceiling begin to move. But actually, he realizes quite quickly, it’s not the ceiling—just a panel over it, sliding back to review a mirror.

“I’m surprised it took you this long,” Ratchet says, flexing his fingers and looking up at his reflection with mild interest.

“Me too,” Pharma says, sitting up so he’s not obscuring Ratchet’s upper half now. “I thought I’d let you play with it since clearly you have some kind of complex.” His hand rests on Ratchet’s thigh now, close enough that Ratchet’s equipment gives a simultaneous throb of want.

“I don’t have a complex,” Ratchet insists. “I just don’t think this suits me as much as it suits you.”

Pharma hums, moving his hand down between Ratchet’s legs and parting the lips of his valve with the lightest of touches. He’s got a look like he’s no longer paying attention to Ratchet and his complaints that feels vaguely medical to Ratchet. “Well, you’re in a good position to change your own mind, if you would stop being so stubborn.”

Before Ratchet can retort, Pharma plunges two fingers deep into his valve and curls them brutally, making his fans stutter as they try to jump up a few speeds all at once. Pharma quickly establishes a pace, dragging his crooked fingers right along a primed stripe of Ratchet’s nodes all the way to his rim and shoving them back in, each time trying to reach deeper than before. Ratchet almost can’t establish a steady vent, and he strains at the cuffs reflexively, throwing his head back and arching his back, and as he does this he can’t help but catch a glimpse of something a little brighter red than he’s used to seeing adorning his frame.

He submits to Pharma’s suggestion, as he so often does, watching himself gasp and moan as his lover’s fingers work and coax his slick valve open. Somehow this position has him noticing lines and curves in his frame that he hasn’t seen before. He flexes and twists under Pharma’s merciless onslaught, and the garment flexes with him, highlighting the shifting panels in his frame as the thin fabric twists over them.

But beyond that, now that he’s not simply standing in front of a mirror, scrutinizing himself, he thinks he can see what Pharma meant about the decorative aspect. Somehow he feels a little warmer in his array seeing himself all dressed up in one of Pharma’s little pieces. He twists and moans as Pharma slips a third finger into him and forces his calipers open as they try to clamp down, eyeing the strain of the fabric pinned under him stretching across the length of him.

Maybe it’s just context, but somehow he can’t see himself being comfortable wearing this outside of Pharma’s bedroom, and there isn’t much that can make a medic as old as Ratchet uncomfortable. It feels distinctly sexual now that he can see it in action, the elastic embedded into the lace glinting in the dim light of the room almost sparkling as the plates of his body move and force it to shift at new angles. And actually, it is pretty.

Ratchet watches himself try to swallow and be forced into a shout again when Pharma draws his now-slippery fingers out and starts massaging his node, dragging it in slow circles that pick up speed around the topmost corner. His mesh burns with charge from Pharma fingering him seconds ago, feeling a little raw, but no less slick, and when Pharma switches the direction of his circling, his calipers seize inwards, trying to beckon him back inside.

“You’re still being stubborn,” Pharma comments, giving Ratchet’s node a light flick. “Just overload.”

“You— _nngh_ — You’ll keep going?” Ratchet pants. Now that they’ve started, he doesn’t think he’ll be satisfied with just one.

“Of course,” Pharma coos. Without taking his fingers off Ratchet’s node, he shifts down between his legs and blows a surprisingly cool vent across it, if Ratchet’s own internal temperature is anything to go by. Ratchet doesn’t last more than a few seconds when takes it between his teeth and sucks, the tip of his glossa teasing across it as Ratchet watches himself shake and groan in the mirror overhead.

He might have offlined for a few seconds, but the next thing he knows he feels something else nudging into his still tender, tingling valve. Ratchet catches sight of Pharma holding a sleek black vibrator with bright blue lights to him before it slowly disappears when he eases it into him. It’s not so uncomfortable—Pharma stretched him out more than enough to accomodate the size of the toy. In fact, Ratchet kind of likes the soft buzz and the light overstimulation with the thing stuffed inside his valve, clearly emanating charge from those blue nodes that feed into his own interface array and try to cycle him back up again.

Pharma keeps his fingers to the base of the toy as he slowly turns the dial and it begins to buzz harder, and what’s more, when he draws his fingers back, it stays locked in him, sending strong vibrations without the force of friction to keep him stimulated but unsatisfied. Ratchet lets out another soft noise.

Pharma lets his fingers slip between his own legs as he watches Ratchet stagger through his vents. “Feeling nice?” he asks.

“You know it,” Ratchet groans. “You going to go easy on me?”

Pharma’s optics narrow. “Are you asking for more?”

Ratchet considers. He’d only been teasing, but he isn’t going to turn it down. “I can take more,” Ratchet says, shifting his hips slightly and marveling about how well the toy stays with him. Must be magnetic. He wonders if its new, but doesn’t ask. His spike still stands untouched, having made a dark spot on the lace where the transfluid has dripped onto his belly. He ignores the mirror, watching the fluffy purple skirt bounce around Pharma’s wrist as he works his fingers in his own valve and considers.

“You’d better last,” Pharma says as he finally reaches for the dial nestled between the lips of Ratchet’s valve and wrenches it up a few settings. Ratchet has to swallow a groan at the strong increase in sensation thrumming through his lines, but he manages it and nods, giving Pharma a practiced, self-assured smile.

“I’m good for as long as you want, babe.” He even winks.

Pharma snorts, but there’s a fondness in his field. Pharma can be tough and relentless, but he often softens up when he’s actually enjoying himself (which often happens when he’s running the show).

He climbs over Ratchet, carefully adjusting his knees at Ratchet’s sides to his liking. When he lifts himself up, Ratchet can see the skirt hanging low behind him, loose and full to contrast the light, almost floral patterns running up the bodice, and he wishes he could put his hands on him again, use the way the fabric sticks out and bunches at his hips as a stop to pull him down over his spike. But Pharma obliges anyway, lining up and sinking down slowly, tantalizingly, sheathing Ratchet in his pulsing, hot valve.

Pharma lets out a long sigh, grinding himself down still deeper against Ratchet’s plating while he strains against the sensations wracking his array. There’s almost feedback within his own array, when Pharma’s calipers squeeze around his spike and feeling his own throbbing against the relentless buzzing charge of the toy crammed inside him. He throws his head back in an attempt to center himself, to escape Pharma rocking and humming as he just barely shifts around on top of him, and is shocked (unnecessarily) to find the mirror is still there.

He looks a mess, honestly. The garment has slipped off his chestplate and is stretched at a wide angle, though not damaged, it would seem. The bed is disheveled below him, while Pharma’s top-down silhouette looks pristine where it obscures the bulk of his lower body. Pharma notices where he’s looking and rests his hands on Ratchet’s abdomen so he can peer up at the mirror, taking in the sight of them from another angle. He remains smug, though his valve is throbbing with a clear desire for friction, each pulse a fresh torture as it squeezes Ratchet’s spike.

“Very nice,” Pharma murmurs appreciatively. Ratchet feels like the buzzing in his valve is reverberating into his brain. These stupid cuffs are keeping him docile, and while he’s far from pulling out their safeword, he desperately wishes Pharma would _move._

He does break his gaze away from the ceiling and return it to Ratchet, moving his hands out to the bed and stretching out over him again, so he does pull off him slightly, until he throws his hips backwards and slams down for a sudden burst of friction. “I thought you were the patient one. I can feel you getting frustrated.”

Ratchet chokes on a vent. “I’m not frustrated, you aft, I’m _blitzed_.”

Pharma laughs and rocks his hips a little more, somewhere shy of a reasonable, slow pace. The lewd, wet sound of their equipment locking together is audible and maddening. “Isn’t that flattering.”

“You’d better be ready for more as soon as I get out of these cuffs,” Ratchet threatens, already fantasizing about teasing Pharma into a hot, writhing mess, getting his scuffed hands all over his pristine plating and giving a good squeeze wherever he deems fit. He feels a tremor ripple through Pharma’s valve, but he only barely picks up the pace and breathes out a soft moan.

“You know me. I’m always ready.” He crawls his hands up a little further and shoves his fingers between Ratchet’s, throwing his weight into them so their fields prickle together like sparks from a fire, and now he does kick it up into high gear, fully riding Ratchet, slamming his hips back into him.

Ratchet decides not to delay on his promise and digs his pedes into the squishy coating of the berth. It has surprisingly good traction, and gives him the leverage ne needs to lift his hips to Pharma’s in time with his movements. He barely has the strength to do so with Pharma’s vibrator buzzing steadily, locked in his valve and moving as his calipers adjust haphazardly around it to compensate for his other movements. It’s an onslaught of sensation, and it’s enough to make him echo Pharma’s loud and lustful moans, but not enough to drive him to overload yet.

Ratchet’s eyes catch sight of the Autobot badge glinting on Pharma’s chest, exposed between the panels of purple lace obscuring the rest of his plating. He can feel the skirt tickling his thighs where it’s shaken with their movements, and he imagines how he might flip it up over Pharma’s bared back and pin him by the neck to the berth while he fucks him. There’s a nice thought.

Pharma’s curling in on himself, valve contracting more irregularly as he approaches overload. Ratchet feels himself creeping up on it quickly as well. He’s dying to get Pharma under him, to pay him back for all this teasing, not because he resents it, but because Pharma looks good on his back. A thought briefly flickers across Ratchet’s mind that maybe he also has power play fantasies, but it passes easily when Pharma squeezes his valve down around Ratchet’s spike and his train of thought goes blank.

Pharma picks up his pace briefly, but it only has to be brief before the slick sparking friction from Ratchet overloading inside him and the force of their thrusts can have him peaking over the edge. He squeezes Ratchet’s poor hands so the metal creaks as he rides out his overload, but Ratchet lets him, enjoying something to draw his attention away from the still-buzzing vibrator stuffed in his valve.

Pharma collapses on top of him after a moment, just barely dismounting before draping himself over Ratchet’s chest.

“ _Pharma,_ ” Ratchet groans. “Don’t relax before you get this thing out of me.”

Pharma scoffs in irritation and sloppily reaches down to pull the thing out. He doesn’t even bother turning it off before he throws it off the bed in the same direction as the towel, where it continues to emit a low buzzing sound that feels out of place during this brief moment of recovery.

“And the cuffs?” Ratchet says expectantly, wiggling his fingers. His shoulders are getting stiff, and he might even ask Pharma to service them later, if he’s not still being a brat.

“So needy, Ratchet,” Pharma murmurs against his still-warm plating. “Just let me have a minute.”

“We can have a minute _together_ if you would undo this damn contraption, before I frag you into this berth.”

Pharma winks an optic open to peek up at him. “I think I might recharge, actually,” he says airily.

“You won’t, if you know what’s good for you.”

“Idle threats from a desperate mech,” Pharma sings, ending in a staged yawn. He has the remote again that he’d used earlier to slide back the panel on the ceiling, revealing the mirror. He presses another button and the lights in the room immediately wink off. Ratchet suspects the button to release the cuffs had been right next to it, something that he only grows more sure about when Pharma sets the remote down on his chestplate where he’ll easily be able to see it but not reach it, because such an action is stereotypical Pharma pettiness.

Ratchet seethes in the darkness as Pharma rolls off of him, pulling up pillows and other frivolous things to laden himself with. Pharma utters a contented sigh before he says simply, “Goodnight, my pretty little thing,” kisses him on the cheek, and offlines his optics.


End file.
